Page 22 of Surrender to Me
He takes a slow, deliberate step toward me.
Then another.
My heart thuds, hammering against my ribs. His gaze is locked on mine—intense, determined dangerous.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just that client saying she needs the project today, not tomorrow.” I offer a shrug. “Good thing I’m caffeinated.”
He scowls, as if he doesn’t believe me.
But instead of pressing, he nods once and heads back toward his office. The door clicks softly behind him.
In the distance, his phone rings.
Even though I tiptoe across the room, I can’t make out what’s being said. All too soon, there’s silence.
Hurriedly I return to my barstool and glance his way when he emerges from his office.
He’s scowling, phone in hand.
“Problem?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager.
“A thing I need to deal with. Shouldn’t take long.” He drains the last of his coffee and sets the mug in the sink. “You’ll be okay here?”
“Sure.”
He meets my eyes, gaze lingering. “If you need anything, call me.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another card. He drops it next to the keyboard. “I mean it.”
“Got it.” I nod, trying not to show how fast my heart’s beating. “I’ll be too busy working to even notice you’re gone.”
He snags a set of keys from a bowl on the island. “Make yourself at home. Shower, nap—whatever you need.”
Then he’s gone, the soft click of the door somehow louder than it should be.
I stay still for another thirty seconds. Maybe more. Just long enough for my pulse to steady. For the sound of his footsteps to fade.
Remembering his kiss and my terrifying reaction, I move.
Quiet. Efficient. Fast.
I ease off the barstool, sliding my phone into a pocket.
After looking out the window and seeing him pull his SUV from the underground parking lot and onto the street, I slip out the door, pulling up my hood as I go.
When I’m a few blooks away, I call my preferred rideshare company even as I keep moving.
I love this company because it’s off the grid. The kind that doesn’t track payment history and doesn’t ask questions.
The car meets me about half a mile away, a distance I cover in a matter of minutes.
I never look back.
The drive to the storage unit is uneventful.
Downtown traffic is light, the city still stretching into afternoon. The air has an even sharper bite than earlier, a fall crispness that would make my lungs burn if I breathed too deep.
The facility is just off the edge of LoDo—industrial, anonymous, nothing flashy. I set it up years ago. A cash rental under yet another alias. Unit 4C. Easy to remember. Easy to disappear from.
